Into View
by Agent Otter
Summary: "He takes the wine out of his grocery bag, grabs a glass from the cupboard, and sits down at the kitchen table. He remembers that the last time he did this, he consumed the entire bottle, and that helped a little." S/V


Title: **Into View**  
Author: Agent Otter  
Summary: "He takes the wine out of his grocery bag, grabs a glass from the cupboard, and sits down at the kitchen table. He remembers that the last time he did this, he consumed the entire bottle, and that helped a little."  
Rating: PG  
Spoilers: None, really. This could fit in a lot of places in the timeline, but it's basically set in some very near future.  
Author's note: This one hit me last night and I couldn't stop writing it. I was up until about 7:30 this morning finishing it up. I think fan fiction might be an illness.

  


When he wakes, there's no momentary confusion, no gradual return to consciousness, no slow surfacing from dreams. His eyes simply open, and it is as if they've been open all along, like he's been awake but far away. There's sunlight streaming in the windows, and it makes the place feel open, airy, inviting; the white walls bounce the light around the apartment, and one of the curtains billows gently, admitting a cool breeze through the window that he opened early this morning, before the sun came up. It makes the apartment smell fresh and new, like the promising spring day outside. Inside, everything is quiet.

Donovan nudges his hand with a cold, wet nose, and lets out the particularly urgent little whine that says that he desperately needs to go outside. Vaughn forces himself out of bed, pulls on the wrinkled khakis and white undershirt that he tossed carelessly to the foot of the bed before he collapsed. He runs a hand through his hair, decides that it's going to be a mess whether or not he takes the time to comb it, and rifles through his dresser drawers looking for a fresh pair of clean socks. He smiles and fingers her things in the top two drawers - panties and bras and other sheer underthings in a rainbow of colors and fabrics. The cotton panties she wears most of the time, for the comfort; the silkier ones that she dons just to drive him crazy. There's a teddy buried in there that she bought for his birthday last year, and he pulls it out for a moment, smiles fondly at it, knowing she's never worn it for more than a minute at a stretch. He likes the way she looks in it. He likes even better how she looks out of it.

He finally locates some athletic socks in the bottom drawer, tugs on some tennis shoes, and retrieves Donovan's leash from its hook next to the front door. He shoves a handful of doggy bags into his pocket, manages to snap the leash onto the over-excited dog's collar, and allows himself to be pulled out the front door, down the stairs, and into the building lobby.

One of his neighbors is standing in front of the mailboxes, frowning as she tosses junk mail one by one into the little trash can in the corner. He desperately wants to get out the front door without having to speak to her, but she looks up and spots him.

"Good morning, Michael," she says, and she smiles a kindly smile that is _too_ kind. She is gorgeous and wonderful and funny and makes for great company. He wants nothing more than to be away from her.

"Morning, Stacy," he says, and he manages to smile back, just enough that maybe she won't say anything else, maybe she'll just leave it there.

"How's your Sydney doing?" Stacy says, and her smile gets just a little bit more earnest, if that's even possible.

"She's great, thanks," he says, even as something in the back of his head starts chanting _liar liar liar liar liar liarliarliarliarliar_. Donovan strains at the leash and barks, gazing through the front doors at the green world outside; longing, no doubt, for a frolic in the grass and a stop at the nearest fire hydrant. _Thank you, Donnie,_ Vaughn thinks, and to Stacy he says, "Sorry, I've got to run. Have a good one."

He nearly does run, almost literally dashes out the front door, letting Donovan pull him along for a half a block toward the little dog's favorite overgrown bush. The animal promptly vanishes under the vegetation to relieve himself and to carefully inspect the scents left by the other neighborhood animals; his displeased sniffling indicates that cats have been invading his domain again.

Vaughn stands with the leash looped around his wrist, hands stuffed into his pockets, glancing about the neighborhood. The climate inside his apartment promised a beautiful day outside, but it didn't even approach the sheer perfection of the weather. The sun beats down pleasantly, warming his hair, but a breeze blowing in off the Pacific keeps things cool, and it puffs gently on his skin every time the sun feels intense enough to burn. There isn't much traffic on his little residential street, and he can't even hear the distant rumble of the interstate. Across the street, a cluster of gangly young boys clamors down the street on their way to the park, one of them dribbling a basketball. The palm trees along the street rustle in unison in the wind. A young woman jogs past and beams a heartfelt smile at Vaughn, as if to say, _Welcome to the world, neighbor, it's a beautiful day!_

When Donovan emerges from the bush, mouth smiling, tongue lolling from his mouth in satisfaction, Vaughn doesn't have the heart to turn around and take the animal immediately back to the apartment, so they walk a maze of neighborhood streets instead. They end up at the convenience store several blocks down, and he leaves the little dog outside to pant in the sun and catch his breath.

A blast of air conditioning hits him as he walks into the store, and he blinks for a moment at his florescent-lit surroundings as if he's never seen the place before. He's forgotten what he came for, but he picks up a basket anyway, walks up and down the short aisles. He pulls from the shelves all the things he usually does: garlic and rosemary sourdough bread, because she says it makes the best garlic bread and tuna melts. A box of that cranberry cereal she likes so much. A carton of orange juice, double calcium because she says there's not enough of that in his diet. Some frozen berries for pancakes, but he skips over sickly-looking refrigerated produce aisle; there's no farmer's market until the weekend, but she'll want to get all their real produce there while she exchanges gossip with Maria, who knows everything there is to know about kiwi. He hesitates over the alcohol aisle, and finally settles on a bottle of red wine. She likes to sip it sometimes in the bath, or while she's making dinner, when it's her turn to cook.

The kid behind the counter greets him with a smile that makes the stud in his lower lip wiggle. "How's it going, man?" he asks.

Vaughn shrugs, one-shouldered. "Alright, I guess," he answers. "I like the hair. I think it was green last time I was in here."

The kid glances up, resists the urge to run a hand through his hair: if he isn't careful, the sweat on his palms will strip some of the color out and leave him with a blue-tinged hand. "Yeah," he says. "Green was awhile back; I haven't seen you guys lately. How's that hot girlfriend of yours?" He smiles, starts putting the groceries into a bag.

"She's doing okay," he says.

It's habit, really. He isn't sure what else to say. People ask the question carelessly; it's small talk, and they don't really want to know the answer. He doesn't want to know the answer either, but he does. He guards the truth jealously, but he doesn't like to think about it, either. _She's doing okay,_ he thinks, and he wonders if he can convince himself of that if he says it to other people often enough.

"Last time you guys were in here, you made out like teenagers by the ice cream," the kid recalls, and he gives Vaughn a laugh and a smile and a knowing wink. "When you gonna marry that girl, make an honest woman out of her?"

Vaughn smiles too, sheepishly, because he remembers that incident in vivid detail. "I proposed yesterday, actually," he says, and he isn't sure quite why he says it.

"No shit!" The kid -- Bryan, he remembers suddenly, the kid's name is Bryan -- claps him on the shoulder and says, "Hey, congratulations, man!"

"Thanks," Vaughn mutters, and he is infinitely grateful that Bryan doesn't actually ask what Sydney's answer to the proposal was.

They always seem so happy together, after all. Why would she say no?

He picks up the bag and the kid says, "Say hi to Sydney for me."

"I will," Vaughn says, as he tucks the groceries into one arm and pushes the door open with the other. The bell above the door jingles. "See you."

Donovan's caught his breath, and they head back for the apartment. Vaughn smiles and nods when they walk past Jerry, walking the two massive Irish Wolfhounds that Sydney knows by name. Mrs. Vilnovich is sitting on her little second-floor patio with a cup of coffee like she does ever morning, and Vaughn waves at her like he and Syd always do when they walk Donovan past her building. She smiles and waves back, squints at him like she thinks maybe Sydney's there walking beside him and it's just her eyesight that's failing. He's relieved not to run into any more neighbors as he enters his building and walks up the stairs to his apartment, and when he's inside he pauses for a moment to breathe a sigh before he unclips Donovan's leash and moves into the kitchen to put the groceries away.

In the refrigerator, there are already two loaves of garlic and rosemary bread and a carton of orange juice. There are two bags of frozen berries in the freezer, and four boxes of the cereal in the cupboard. He automatically throws out the old loaves - they've begun to mold - and then he takes the wine out of his grocery bag, grabs a glass from the cupboard, and sits down at the kitchen table. He remembers that the last time he did this, he consumed the entire bottle, and that helped a little.

This time he hasn't even finished pouring the first glass before a shudder runs up his spine, and the bottle taps so violently against his wine glass that he has to put it down before he breaks one or both of them. He takes a deep breath to calm himself, but a strangled sob still escapes when he exhales. He corks the wine and takes it back into the kitchen, and then he walks through to the bathroom and sets the half-full glass on the edge of the tub. As if she'll walk in any moment for a bath, and see that he's left the wine for her, and smile and shake her head in wonderment at just how well he knows her.

She won't, and he knows that, but he leaves the wine there anyway.

He strips off his t-shirt and turns on the cold water in the sink, cups it in his hands and splashes it on his face, over his hair, and lays one cool, wet hand on the back of his neck. He uses her bath towel to wipe the water from his face, but it doesn't smell like her anymore.

He stands in the bedroom for a moment, unsure what he should do with himself, then moves to the closet and pulls out fresh clothes. It's the weekend, so he slips into a comfortable pair of loose jeans and the dark brown t-shirt that she bought for him the time they drove to Mexico on a whim. It says, "Papi's Taco's." There's a cartoon of a taco with arms and legs and a big smile, like a Mickey Mouse you can eat, and then underneath, "Taco's, Burrito's, Fajita's, Espionage's." He remembers how she had laughed about that t-shirt, and how she had quizzed Papi himself about it; it was, the old man had explained, designed by his nephew, who didn't spell very well; it was supposed to say "Empanadas." His nephew, Papi had said, rolling his eyes, was easily distracted and read too many comic books.

Vaughn sighs as he pulls his keys and wallet from the pockets of his discarded khakis. He runs his hand over the cracked and worn screenprinting on the front of the t-shirt, as if it's a magic lamp and if he just rubs it a few times, they'll be back in Mexico, floating on rented surfboards then retiring to their tiny beachfront motel room at night. He remembers that her skin tasted like the ocean.

There's a hardcover copy of _Winesburg, Ohio_ sitting on the coffee table, and he picks it up as he walks out the door, dashing down the steps, through the door and into the stairwell that leads down to the parking garage underneath the building. It takes him longer than usual to get to the freeway, with seemingly every resident of Los Angeles out in the streets, on their way to enjoy the day. The freeway is crowded, too, but he takes his time, drives carefully, and finally pulls off two exits early get out of the freeway traffic. When he stops at a red light, there's a woman standing on the median strip with a shopping cart full of bundles of oranges and bouquets of wildflowers. She walks up and down the median with oranges in one hand and flowers in the other, waving them at the cars trapped in the turn lane, trying to entice the weekend travelers to buy her wares. He buys one of each, and it only sets him back five dollars. He takes surface streets the rest of the way, and circles the cramped side-streets to find free street parking.

Rosa at the front desk says, "Hey, Michael," as he enters. Her smile is the kind of overly kind smile he's used to getting from Stacy in his building, ever since she asked one day how things were going and he actually told her the truth. Rosa's looks are too sympathetic, and he always rushes past her duty station.

He walks to the elevators with a bouquet in one hand, a couple oranges in the other, and _Winesburg, Ohio_ tucked under his arm. He rides up to the fourth floor with a little girl who's tightly clutching the hand of a woman who must be her mother. A harried-looking older couple get on at two, along with a young man in scrubs. Vaughn gives each of them a polite nod as he encounters them, but no one speaks in the elevator, and none of them follow when he gets off at four. He walks down the hallway alone, too, and when he gets to her room, he hesitates in the doorway.

Her father is in there with her, perched on the edge of the bed, holding tightly to her hand. She's crying, and pale, and the circles under her eyes look darker than he's ever seen them. "I didn't know what else to do, Dad," she's saying. "I couldn't let him--" She sees Vaughn from the corner of her eye and abruptly stops talking, but he knows what she's saying anyway. He's heard most of it already.

"Morning," he says, with a smile that's maybe a little too forced. Jack stands, and they both stare at him like they're wondering just where he comes from and whether his strange ways are shared by all of his people. He enters without an invitation, circles around the bed to the vase near the window, and pulls out the slightly wilted flowers from a few days before, replacing them with the fresh ones he bought on the way. He tilts the blinds to allow more sunlight into the room and pretends not to notice how the light makes the tear tracks on her face sparkle like melting snow. He puts the book and the two oranges on top of the little table next to her bed, for whenever she wants them, and then he pulls up his usual chair next to the bed, at an angle where he can touch her hand and see her face and still be able to turn his head to see out the window.

"I'm going to get some coffee," Vaughn says, when he looks up and they're both watching him again. He's interrupting, and he feels a little bad about it, but he's sure Jack won't mind. The older man's been very sympathetic, understanding... almost fatherly. "Can I get you one, Jack?"

Jack shakes his head, and Vaughn walks out through the familiar hallways to the nurse's station, where Tricia greets him with a steaming cup of coffee and a cheerful smile.

"Morning, Mike," she says.

"Morning, Trish," he replies, taking the coffee when she offers it. "Have you developed some psychic powers you haven't told me about?"

She shakes her head and laughs. "I saw you come in, but you looked like you had your hands full. I figured you'd be over any minute looking for some coffee. Back for round two, huh?"

He grimaces, even though she's already added his preferred sugar to the coffee. "Sorry about the noise yesterday," he says.

"Don't worry about it," she says, and she reaches out to squeeze his arm. "Anyway, you were right and she was so wrong. I probably would've yelled too. Don't know what she's thinking. Guy like you..." She heaves an exaggerated sigh and winks at him, then retrieves some paperwork from the desk and steps around him to the hallway. "Just try to keep the noise down today, huh?"

By the time he returns to the room, Jack has gone, and the tears have been wiped from Sydney's face. Her eyes are still bloodshot, though, and she's propped herself up a little further against the headboard, with a pile of pillows behind her back. He circles the bed and takes his seat, sipping at his coffee and reaching out his other hand to retrieve the book from her bedside table.

"Where were we?" he asks, thumbing the book open. He forgot the bookmark yesterday; it fell on the floor somewhere when he got up to leave. He thinks that housekeeping has probably already cleaned the floor this morning, so it's probably gone.

There's a pause, and then she says, "Didn't I break up with you yesterday?"

His eyes are still trained on the book and he frowns as he flips through the pages, trying to find where they'd left off the day before. "Yeah," he affirms. "Something about this not being fair to me, false hope, et cetera et cetera. Oh, here we are."

He leans back and puts his feet up, balancing them precariously on one of the drawer-handles on the bedside table. He lays the book in his lap and uses one of the oranges to keep it open, so he can warm both his hands on the coffee mug.

"'Already he hears death calling,'" Vaughn reads. "'With all his heart he wants to-'"

"Stop," Sydney interrupts. She leans down to lay a hand over the pages of the book so he can't read any further. "Did we or did we not break up yesterday?" she asks.

"Well, you broke up with me," he says. "But I didn't break up with you. I proposed, actually. And you never did answer me."

"I thought the breaking up with you was my answer."

"It's not really a yes or no."

She stares at him for a moment, then says, "No."

"Okay. I'll ask you again some other time." He shrugs and looks back to the book, but she snatches it from his lap and lays it face-down on the bed.

"The answer's always going to be no," she says, quietly. "Don't ask me again."

He frowns at her, then lets his feet drop to the floor, leans forward, traps her hand between his own and says, "Sydney, will you marry me?"

Her cry of frustration is wordless, but then she manages to say, "No! Did you even hear anything I said to you yesterday?"

"Of course I did," he replies, indignant. "I hang on every word you say, Syd. But I have to tell you, in all the time we've known each other I've never heard you say anything that stupid. Ever."

She looks like she's seriously considering strangling him, but the feeling seems to pass, along with her strength, and she collapses back against the pillows. "You are so lucky," she gasps. "If I was feeling just a little bit better, I'd be kicking your ass all the way back to Normandy by now."

"Promises, promises," he mutters, and he takes back the book. "'With all his heart he wants to come close to some other human,'" he continues reading, "'touch someone with his hands, be touched by the hand of another. If he prefers that the other be a woman, that is because he believes that a woman will be gentle, that she will understand. He wants, most of all, understanding.'"

"That's not actually where we left off, is it?" Sydney says. "You're trying to tell me something in a really deep and subtle sort of way."

He pauses and flips the book over to look at its cover, as if examining it will yield some clue. "No," he answers. "I swear this is where we stopped. You might not have heard the bit before it because you kept interrupting to break up with me. You're not doing to do that again, are you?"

"Would it do any good?"

"No."

"Then I guess not."

"Good. I don't think I could take that on a daily basis." He turns the book back over and skims the page for a moment, looking for his place, and opens his mouth to read again, but he can't quite get the words out. Instead, he says, "I really want to marry you Sydney. I love you. I love you like, a completely crazy amount."

She sighs and looks out the window. "I'm dying, Vaughn."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am. Why do you have to make this so hard?"

"_Me?_" he snaps the book shut and puts it back on the table, giving up on it entirely. "_I'm_ making this hard? I love you and I'm telling you I love you and I'm sitting here _begging_ you to be my wife and you're blowing me off."

"I'm _dying,_ Vaughn!" Her voice wants to be loud and sharp, but it's weak and breathy instead. He almost feels guilty for getting her worked up, but he pushes it aside.

"You're going to get better," he insists, through gritted teeth, trying to stay quiet so they don't disturb the other patients with terse, raised voices like they did yesterday. "We're never let them win before. We're not going to start now. And I'm not going to let you push me away just because you're feeling depressed. We're not breaking up, and I'm not going to leave just so you can feel better about giving up on yourself. I will _never_ give up on you, Syd." When he's finished he leans back in his chair and glares at her a little, and he can't decide whether he wants to kiss her or yell at her a bit more. But he finds himself saying, "Bryan says hi."

She frowns, and there's a little wrinkle between her eyebrows. He really, really wants to kiss it. "Bryan?"

"Yeah. The kid at the corner store with the wild hair. He asked when I was going to make an honest woman out of you."

She laughs, and he silently thanks Bryan for bringing the happy expression to her face.

"I told him I'd proposed. He assumed you said yes. Thank god, because it's a sad sight, to see a grown man cry in the freezer aisle."

She smiles at him, but she looks tired. For a moment, she grimaces, and he knows that she's feeling the ripping pain in her chest again; his own heart thuds painfully in sympathy, and he leans in to kiss her gently on the cheek. When the pain passes, she raises one weak hand to turn his head and guide him to her lips instead. They only break the embrace when he realizes somewhat guiltily that she's running short on oxygen.

"You sleep," he whispers, resting his forehead against hers while she pants for breath. "I'll be right here."

Sydney shakes her head, and her fingers stroke the short hair at the nape of his neck. "Yes," she says.

"Yes?"

"I love you a completely crazy amount, too. I'll marry you. Even if I think you're an idiot."

He smiles, the first full-fledged smile in quite some time, and says, "I'll get you a ring. We'll do the whole thing after you've recovered. It'll be great."

"Yeah," she says. "Maybe at the reception Kendall will get really drunk and start dancing on the tables."

"I didn't need that image," Vaughn says, with a laugh, and he kisses her one more time before he sinks back into his chair.

"But think of the blackmail material," Sydney says. She laughs a little, but she's clearly fading and she has a hard time keeping her eyes open.

"Go to sleep," he orders. "I'll be here when you wake up. Just for kicks, you can break up with me again."

"Okay," she murmurs. "Maybe tomorrow."

He smiles and picks up the book again, flipping it open to a random page and not really reading what's written there. "Tomorrow," he mutters, mostly to himself. "We're going to have plenty of those."


End file.
